


Matchlight: A Winter's Tale

by roryheadmav



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Highlander - Freeform, M/M, Slash, fairy tale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-04-17
Updated: 1999-04-17
Packaged: 2017-10-07 20:58:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/69172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roryheadmav/pseuds/roryheadmav
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In this Highlander version of the "Little Match Girl", a poor banished Highlander finds love in the tiny flame of a match.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Matchlight: A Winter's Tale

 

James Horton glanced down at the few pieces of coin lying on top of his table with a dissatisfied wrinkle of his nose. "This is not enough," he declared, peering up at the young man standing before him. "I could only give you two bundles."

        The man was crestfallen, "But yestreen ye gave me five bundles for the same amount!"

        "It was an act of charity on my part, Duncan MacLeod. I was hoping you would sell all of them. I would have given you the money you made on the three extra bundles I gave you. But you only sold a little over a half of one batch and all the rest you managed to drop in the ditch."

        "'Twas an accident!" Duncan argued, wringing the torn hem of his coat in his hands. Lowering his gaze, he muttered, "I'm sarry, Mr. Horton! I cad 'ave sold mair, but na one wants ta buy matches from me. Then, tha' carriage nearly ran me doon." With a sob, he said more softly, "I'm sarry!"

I should have known! Horton mused to himself.

        He was well aware that Duncan was being treated as a pariah in the city. It was not through any fault of the young man's. The adopted son of the laird of the Clan MacLeod, Duncan died heroically when he saved his father from an assassin's bullet. It was his great misfortune that he didn't stay dead. The young man awoke hours later, as he was being laid in his coffin, with not a scratch on him. His family, being a superstitious lot, cast their poor son out into the streets, declaring to the whole city that he was a "demon", a "spawn of Satan." The confused young man was nearly stoned to death by a fearful mob!

        Fortunately, Horton was passing by around that time and stopped them from hurting the Scot any further. Knowing full well that Duncan MacLeod had become an Immortal, he took the banished son of the clan laird into his care, though it was a term he used rather loosely.

        Duncan had acquired the proud, stubborn Scottish streak his father, Ian MacLeod, was noted for. He refused Horton's offer for food and lodging, opting instead to live in the poor house or, more often than not, among the derelicts living in the dingy back alleys. At first, Duncan tried to secure honest employment but no one would hire him. Even when he took to knocking on doors, offering to do menial chores for food, he was either turned away or beaten in the middle of the street. It was exactly what Horton wanted. He knew the young Scot would soon be returning to him.

        Ironically, it had taken another Immortal to terrify Duncan into coming back to his match factory. The man had challenged the unwitting Highlander to a duel, staking claim to his head. Not knowing what he was, the frightened Scot sought sanctuary in Horton's factory. Hours later, his men summarily dispatched the Immortal. It was no secret that, even though he was a Watcher, he harbored a fierce hatred towards these godlike beings blessed with eternal life. Since then, no Immortal ever dared touch Duncan MacLeod again.

        Despite everything that's happened, Horton still did not reveal to the young man the true nature of his being. He wanted Duncan to be in such a vulnerable state, to be totally dependent on him. He wanted to have an Immortal in his thrall. Though the Highlander continued to refuse to take his money and, instead, offered to sell his matches in the streets, looking at him now, Horton knew it wouldn't be too long before the proud Scot broke down and gave in to his whims.

        But it will be worth the wait! he thought lustfully. Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod is quite a prize!

        The Watcher perused the Scot before him from head to toe. The former pristine white linen shirt was now yellow and dirtied with grime and there were so many tears and patches. His dark coat and trousers were also in the same sorry condition. The boots on his feet have seen better days, the soles almost worn down to holes. An old scarf was wrapped around his neck. Draped over his shoulders like a shawl was the faded blue and green tartan of what had once been his kilt. His thin gloves couldn't keep out the chill that he constantly rubbed his palms together to keep his hands warm.

        It was Horton's constant curiosity, what lay beneath the young Immortal's motley outfit. But he already had an inkling that he wouldn't be disappointed. If it were not for the soot on his face and the knots and tangles in his long sable mane, Duncan was quite a comely creature, with his gentle brown eyes, high cheekbones and lips as full as a woman's.

        Horton snapped out of his musings when he saw a single tear streak a path down the Highlander's dirt-covered face.

        Standing up, he placed an arm around the young man's shoulders. "Now, now, Duncan," Horton said comfortingly. "I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. But I'm running a business here. Surely you could understand that."

        "Aye, I do!" answered the Scot. Pleading, he asked his employer, "Cannae ye give me another chance, Mr. Horton? I swear I'll sell all the matches ye'll give me. 'Tis Christmas Eve an' I'm certain everyone will be needin' matches for makin' fires for their kitchens an' their fireplaces."

        Horton just didn't have the heart to tell him that the gentry have been well stocked with matches before winter even began.

        "Very well," he declared. "Let it not be said I'm a cold-hearted man during Christmas. I'll give you three bundles of matches, Duncan. The money you earn from two out of the three bundles, including the profit, will be yours."

        There was such pure joy on Duncan's face. "Thank ye kindly, sir! I promise I winna disappoint ye!"

        Somehow, a tiny voice in his heart prodded him to ask, "Are you sure you want to go out tonight? I heard there's a storm coming our way."

        "Dinna worry abou' me, Mr. Horton," the young Immortal assured him, putting his precious bundles of matches inside his coat pocket. "I'll be all right!"

        "If only you would accept my offer, Duncan."

        The Scot looked at him, still with that gentle smile on his face. It was only then that Horton realized that Duncan knew exactly the price he would have to pay for accepting his employer's generosity.

        "I truly appreciate yer offer, sir," said Duncan gratefully. "But I think tha' this wad be better for both o' us. 'Tis no' my wish ta see the reputation o' a fine man such as yerself becomin' tarnished for consortin' wi' a devil like me. It wadna be fair ta ye."

        At these words, Duncan MacLeod stepped out into the dark, snowy night. Horton stood still inside his office, stunned by what the Scot had said to him.

        Dear God! What have I just done? he asked himself for a hundredth time, regretting sending the poor young man out into the streets.

        Running towards the door, he flung it wide open, unmindful of the cold wind that blew around him.

        "Duncan! Duncan, come back!" Horton shouted. But the Highlander had vanished into the heart of the city.

 

        Duncan bravely went through the streets, pulling his plaid shawl over his face.

        "Matches, sir? Madam?" he would offer to the people he passed by but all steered clear of his path. The Scot decided to knock on the back doors of some of the fine houses. However, he was turned away. One cook even chased him off with a butcher knife.

        Hours passed and he still hasn't sold a single match. Feeling very hungry, the Highlander decided to go to the poor house. But the place was already full. There wasn't even any food left for him. Chilled to the bone and weary at heart, all he could do was roam the city streets.

        Pausing in the park, Duncan listened to a group of carolers, singing Christmas songs. Though a small smile formed on the corners of his lips, there was a glimmer of tears in his eyes.

        As he trudged on his way, the sounds of Christmas cheer continued to pound in his ears that it became very difficult for him to hold back his emotions.

        His feet carried him to the stairs of an apartment. The front door opened and a little girl with wispy golden locks came skipping down, almost bumping into him.

        Seeing the bundle of matches the Highlander held in his hands, the child gave a delighted squeal. In a lilting accent, she asked him, "My Mama asked me to buy some matches. Are your matches for sale, kind sir?"

        Duncan was speechless at first. Then, realizing that he was standing before a prospective customer, he grinned sheepishly, nodding his head. "Aye, they are! How many wad ye be needin'?"

        "Just twenty pieces will do, I think."

        "That'll be two coppers, ma lady," he said graciously, quickly loosening the tie of the bundle and pulling twenty matches out.

        The child giggled as she dug her hand deep into her pocket. "You called me a lady! No one has ever called me a lady before."

        "Dinna ye like it?"

        "Actually, I do!" the girl laughed. "It sounds very nice!"

        Just as Duncan was about to hand the matches to the child, a woman screamed. Before he knew what was happening, a hard fist struck his jaw and he fell to the cobbled walk, dropping his precious bundle of matches on the snow.

        "What are you doing, Papa?" the little girl shouted in outrage to the angry man beside her. "He wasn't hurting me! I was going to buy matches from him!"

        "Take her upstairs!" the man told his wife. Turning to the Scot, he waved a threatening finger at him. "Stay away from my daughter, you demon!"

        "Mama!" the child exclaimed as her terrified parents all but dragged her back into the apartment. "He wasn't doing anything wrong!"

        "Hush now!" her mother said sternly. "I don't want to see you talking to him again! He's evil!"

        The harsh words stung his heart. "I'm no' a demon!" cried Duncan, tears streaming down his cheeks. "I'm no' evil!"

        But his cries fell on deaf ears as the door slammed shut.

        His body shaking with sobs, Duncan gathered his fallen matches only to find that they were ruined. Only three tiny pieces escaped the sodden ground, having fallen on a cobblestone. Clutching them close to his heart, he laid his back against the stairway, cowering in the corner.

        "Why is everyone sa cruel ta me?" he wept bitterly. "I've done na wrong ta anyone! I'm no' a devil!"

        There was a sudden flurry of wind and snow that Duncan shivered, making him feel even more miserable. Snowflakes covered his sable mane. As he pulled the tartan around his body, he slowly opened his hand to look at the three matches in his palm.

        I'm sa cauld! the Scot thought. I'll just pay Mr. Horton for the ruined batch. He winna know I used these three good matches I saved.

        Taking one match, he struck it against the stone of the stairs. A small flame burst at the tip and its sweet smoke wafted around him. But the scent slowly began to dissipate, being overwhelmed by a stronger aroma that made the Scot's mouth water.

        As Duncan held the match up before him, shielding it from the wind with his right hand, the flickering flame suddenly flared brightly. His eyes widened as he beheld a most wondrous sight.

        A long dining table stood before him, laden with all types of delicious food. There were cakes, pies and pastries. A gleaming silver bowl held steaming soup. There were plates filled with an assortment of sweet meats. Christmas baskets were filled with fruits. There was even a decanter of red wine. At the center of the table was the biggest roast Duncan had ever seen.

        The Highlander felt his stomach rumble. Mesmerized by the tempting feast before him, his right hand reached out to the basket of plums that was closest to him.

        But a sudden gust of wind blew out the flame of the match. To the Scot's dismay, the vision of the Christmas feast vanished with the light. Before he could burst into tears once more, he saw that in its place stood the little girl.

        Duncan swiftly got to his feet, about to run away, afraid of a beating. The child's clear voice stopped him.

        "No! Please don't go!" she begged him.

        Turning to look at her, he replied fearfully, "Yer parents might get angry if they see ye talkin' ta me."

        "My Papa shouldn't have hit you!" the girl commented, deep resentment in her voice. "I'm sorry!"

        "'Tis all right!" he assured her.

        "You didn't look all right to me. I was watching you through the window and I saw you crying. I managed to sneak out of the house." She gave him a curious look. "You were staring and smiling at me and you were raising your hand to me."

        "I thought I saw somethin'. Forgive me. I dinna mean ta frighten ye."

        The little girl shook her head. "No, I wasn't afraid. I know you're not a bad person." She then pressed a small napkin into his hand. "Merry Christmas!"

        Saying this, the child ran up the stairs.

        "Thank ye!" Duncan called out to her. "What's yer name?"

        She gave him a most beautiful smile. In the lamplight, she looked like an angel. "My name's Tessa, Tessa Noel. I'm from Paris. We arrived here two months ago to take care of my sick aunt."

        "I'm Duncan MacLeod," he introduced himself.

        "I am pleased to meet you, sir." As she was about to take one step up, Tessa paused. She looked worriedly at the Scot. "You must go home, Mr. MacLeod. Christmas is meant to be spent with family."

        Hearing this, Duncan lowered his gaze. "I 'ave na family. My faether...he banished me."

        Tessa shook her head. "No father or mother would ever desert their children." Then, she beamed as a brilliant idea crossed her mind. "I know what I'll do. The Christmas wish I'll make will be for you." Gazing up into the heavens, Tessa clasped her hands together and prayed, "Please, Lord! Let this good man find happiness!"

        This done, she assured him, "Things will go well now. You'll see. Goodbye, Mr. MacLeod! Be safe!" With a wave, Tessa went back inside the apartment.

 

        The Highlander continued to walk on into the windy winter night. Unwrapping the small napkin Tessa had given him, Duncan saw that it contained a large piece of chocolate cake. He ate it bit by bit, savoring its sweetness. Somehow, the child's words continued to haunt him.

        "No father or mother would ever desert their children," Tessa had told him.

        Finishing the cake, Duncan found that he still held the two good matches in his left hand. Letting the napkin fall, the Highlander looked at them. Wondering if the matches would work their magic once more, he stepped into an alley, striking the second one on the wall. Again, smoke filled the air. But this time, the flame burned more brightly, illuminating the alley...and the two figures standing at the end.

        "Faether? Mither?" Duncan asked in disbelief, seeing his parents.

        "I'm sarry I cast ye ou', ma bonny Duncan!" Ian MacLeod told his son, a warm smile on his handsome face. "Come home ta us, son! We miss ye sa much!"

        "Let me haud ye, Duncan!" Mary raised her arms wide. "'Tis been sa long since I last held ye in ma arms!"

        "Faether! Mither!" The Highlander cried in joy as he ran towards his parents.

        Before he could reach them, however, the fire was extinguished. As Duncan's arms enveloped the vision of his parents, he just found himself embracing open air.

        Instead of feeling disheartened, the Scot was still hopeful. Maybe 'tis a sign! Maybe Tessa was right, that I cad gae home!

        Running back to the street, Duncan was even more surprised to find that he was not far off from his own home. Feeling elated, the Highlander hurried to the manse of the clan laird.

        Reaching it, Duncan saw that the huge gates were open. He wasn't surprised. Ian always held a feast every Christmas Eve for family and friends. Sneaking through the tall plants in his mother's garden, he made his way towards the window.

        Wiping the frost from the glass, the Highlander saw his cousins laughing around the fireplace. A red-haired woman sat on the settee beside the Christmas tree.

        "Debra," Duncan whispered, recognizing his fiancée.

        Debra Campbell was still a sight to behold. Her beauty tugged at his lonely heart, aching for her sweet love that he missed so badly.

        Then, the Scot saw his cousin Robert appear. He was carrying a newborn babe. With a smile, he laid the child in Debra's arms. Duncan felt like a dagger stabbed him, seeing them kiss. It was obvious to him that they were husband and wife.

        At that moment, Ian and Mary MacLeod came into view, each bearing a wineglass in their right hand. As the Highlander looked on, they lifted their glasses up in a toast to Robert and his family.

        Duncan didn't know he was crying until he felt the icy sting of his tears on his face.

        I dinna belong here anymore! he said sorrowfully. They're all happy withou' me! They've forgotten I e'er existed!

        Duncan raised his hand and traced his parents' forms on the frosted glass with his fingertip. Enclosing them in a heart, he whispered, "I love ye, Faether, Mither! I'll ne'er forget ye!"

        He then stepped back from the window and made his way out of the gate.

        Unknown to the young Immortal, Ian had felt his son's presence outside. He turned his head just in time to see Duncan's handsome face framed within the crude heart he had drawn on the glass.

        "Duncan?" Ian whispered in shock, blinking hard. But when he opened his eyes, Duncan was gone, the drawing of the heart the only evidence that he had been there.

        There was a wrenching pain in his heart, remembering how filthy and pitiful his son looked. Ian swore Duncan had spoken. Thinking back, he knew immediately what his son had uttered.

        "I love ye, Faether!" were the words Duncan said.

        "Husband? What is it?" queried Mary in concern, seeing the startled expression on Ian's face.

        Without answering her, the clan laird made his way out of the parlor. Heading into the front hall, he flung the ornate doors wide open and strode out.

        "Duncan! Duncan!" he shouted into the stormy night. But his son was nowhere to be found.

        Mary emerged from the house just in time to see her husband get down on his knees, wailing Duncan's name.

        The Highlander was all alone in the city streets, his body being battered by the fierce winds. Though Duncan shivered from the freezing cold, the greater chill of grief has captured his heart. Seeking sanctuary, he decided to go to the closest place he knew where he could hopefully find peace and comfort.

        The Scot pressed on, shielding his face from the wind and snow with his tattered shawl. Though all manner of debris flew around him, he continued to brave the storm. Finally, Duncan found himself standing before the grand cathedral. Swiftly, he ran towards the entrance. But to his dismay, the huge doors were locked. He ran to the smaller doors on the right and left but both were shut tight as well.

        Pounding on the door, Duncan shouted, "Faether Bernard, are ye in there? Please let me in! 'Tis sa cauld ou' here! Faether Bernard!"

        But the priest, after an early repast and knowing that no one would dare brave the storm to attend Midnight Mass, decided to retire for the night. The howling winds drowned out the sounds of Duncan's knocking.

        Seeing that no one came to heed his frantic cries, the Highlander could only feel anguish in his heart.

        Standing away from the door, Duncan stared up into the dark sky. "God!" he shouted in despair. "What 'ave I done tha' e'en ye 'ave turned yer back on me? If I am truly the spawn o' Satan, then end ma life now! I 'ave nocht else ta live for! I just want an end ta this pain an' suffering! I cannae tak it anymore!"

        But even God and all the saints in heaven turned deaf ears to his pleas. His heart and his spirit broken, all Duncan could do was sit down and squeeze himself in the tiny corner of the doorway. Curling up in a tight ball, he buried his face in his knees and wept pitifully.

        Duncan lost all track of time, caught as he was in his misery. It was merely a few minutes before midnight when he slowly lifted his head. He saw that the storm had calmed down a bit, snow still continuing to fall from the sky. His teeth chattered and his hands shook as he rubbed his stiff form, hoping to get the blood flowing through his chilled body.

        It was then that the third match dropped out of the fold of his coat sleeve and landed on his boot. For a long moment, Duncan just stared at it.

        'Tis an evil thin', he mused to himself. E'erythin' it has shown me are all lies! The North Wind blew and he shivered violently. Gazing at the match again, he thought, Wha' else can i' do ta hurt me? I know verra well tha' no one cares abou' me. There is nothin' more it cad show me tha' cad wound ma heart. I need the warmth i'  cad give, no' its illusions.

        Taking the third match between his fingers, Duncan slowly raised his trembling hand. At the first two tries, he failed to light it. On the third attempt, there was a soft hiss as contact was made with the hardwood of the door.

        Suddenly, the match burst into flame. This time, however, the fire steadily grew brighter, becoming as dazzling as the burning sun. Duncan had to turn his face away from the light, shutting his eyes. Still, he could see the aura of the flame in the darkness of his mind.

        Then, an incessant droning filled his head, along with the uncomfortable sensation that someone was watching him.

        Blinking his eyes open, Duncan saw a man standing before him, illumined by the light of the match. He was handsome of face, his skin as white as the falling snow. In contrast, his hair was as black as night, tied in a ponytail with a ribbon. His aristocratic nose and narrow lips gave a stern aspect to his features. But his green gold eyes held kindness in them, and a depth of wisdom that has endured through the passage of time. The man was clad in an elegant cloak of wolf fur.

        "What are you doing here, child?" he asked the Scot in a gentle voice.

        "I got caught in the storm," Duncan answered nervously, wondering if the man was going to arrest him and bring him to prison. "I was seekin' shelter."

        "What is your name?"

        "Duncan...Duncan MacLeod. Who are ye?"

        The man gave him a gracious bow. "I am Death. You are the demon I've heard so much about."

        "Aye, tha' is wha' e'eryone calls me." Looking Death bravely in the eye, the Scot queried, "Have ye come ta tak me ta hell now?"

        Death laughed at this question. "Now why would I do a thing like that?"

        "Surely hell is better than this...this life o' misery. My faether banished me. All men fear an' hate me." A tear trickled from Duncan's right eye. "The pain in my heart is tae much ta bear. Please, sir! 'Tis in yer power ta end ma life now. Please do  i', before the light of the match dies and ye vanish from ma eyes!"

        "Death is not for you, Duncan. There is still so much ahead of you. Live, Highlander. Grow stronger. Fight another day. Your life is not mine to take."

        Suddenly, the flame died. Duncan all but stumbled as he grabbed the length of Death's cloak to prevent him from leaving. Within its folds, he felt the hard, slim form of what was definitely a sword. Reaching inside, he pulled the blade out. Clutching it tightly in his hands, he let the sharp edge cut deep wounds into his palms that, at once, blood began to flow.

        Laying it over his throat, he begged the being before him, "Please, sir! Dinna make me gae on like this!"

        "Life won't always be like this for you, Duncan," Death assured him, pulling his blade back within the confines of his cloak.

        "Other than Mr. Horton an' sweet Tessa, ye are the only one who has showed me compassion this night."

        Death snorted in disgust, hearing the Watcher's name. "I wish I could agree with you about James Horton."

        "Aye, I know wha' Mr. Horton desires from me. But at least he wants me."

        "Is that such comfort to you?" asked Death, a frown creasing his brow. "Do you even know what he truly wants from you?"

        A deep flush formed on the Scot's cheeks. "Aye! I cad see it in his eyes." Lowering his gaze, he added meekly,  almost a whisper, "I see it in yer eyes tae."

        Death spun around on his heels, turning his back to the perceptive young man. "This is preposterous! Why should I want you?"

        "The eyes are the windows ta the heart," Duncan answered him. "Yer eyes cannae hide wha' ye feel inside." He then stated firmly. "I'm no' afraid."

        "You should be afraid," Death whirled around and snarled in his face. "You do not know what you ask!"

        "But I do!" Bowing humbly before the powerful being before him, he pleaded with him, "I beg ye! By the love ye feel in yer heart for me, if ye will no' tak ma life, please give me a reason ta live!"

        That earnest entreaty stirred emotions in Death's heart that he long thought he had lost. Bending down, he held the Scot's shoulders, willing him to look into his eyes.

        "If that is what you wish, Duncan," he replied tenderly. "If that is what you wish."

        At these words, Death wrapped his cloak around them.

 

        Duncan always thought that the touch of Death would be as cold as a corpse. But he never imagined it would be like this.

        As the blizzard raged around them, within the voluminous folds of Death's cloak, there was only searing heat the likes the Highlander has never felt in his life. Even in the arms of Debra Campbell, never has Duncan experienced such raw passion.

        Death's deft hands on his bare skin radiated warmth that filled his entire being. Trembling, eager fingers sought the areas that brought such sweet agony and pleasure – Duncan's lush lips, the throbbing pulse of his graceful throat, the firm mounds of his chest and buttocks, the lines of his inner thighs, and the hardening member with the fragile sac beneath it. When Death's lips closed over the tiny gem of his chest, Duncan shuddered all over, moaning in delight.

        "I want mair!" the Highlander pleaded with the benevolent being who was lapping at his sensitive nipple like a newborn babe. His fingers ran through the velvety soft mane. "I beg ye! Please show me mair!"

        A gasp escaped Duncan's lips, feeling a slender finger probe the intimate region between the cheeks of his rump.

        "You're not ready for this, Duncan," Death muttered gruffly, trying to control the passion that this loving Scot ignited within him. "I don't want to hurt you."

        "An' I told ye, I am no' afraid." To show him, the Scot parted his legs, giving Death an alluring view of the virgin rosebud that lay between them.

        "Close your eyes, Duncan," ordered Death. "If there's pain, tell me and I will stop."

        Shutting his eyes, the Highlander took a deep breath and waited. Then, there was a tender kiss of a fingertip on the tiny bud. Duncan groaned as it entered him. Instinctively, the smooth channel tightened.

        "Breathe!" the voice of his lover reached him. "I want to prepare you for what is to come next."

        Following his instructions, the Scot breathed slowly and deeply as the first finger was joined by another and another. The sensation of fullness gave him such pleasure that he shook his head hard when he felt Death's hand slowly withdraw.

        "No!" Duncan whimpered. "'Tis no' aneuch!"

        Suddenly, there was tremendous pressure on the sensitive orifice...and blinding pain.

        "MA GOD!" the Highlander cried out, tears falling from the corners of his eyes.

        But when he felt the pressure ease, Duncan quickly exclaimed, "No! Forgive me! Dinna stop!"

        "I told you I don't want to hurt you."

        A hand caressed his cheek. Opening his eyes, Duncan kissed Death's palm. "I trust ye!"

        Death reached into the pocket of Duncan's coat and pulled out the two bundles of matches. Flinging the cloak off their naked bodies, he lighted all the matches.

        Throwing them on the snow, he caressed Duncan's ear with his tongue and murmured, "Look at the light, Duncan! See the light!"

        The Highlander turned his head and stared into the flickering flame. Watching the tongues of fire battling with the wind, Duncan hardly felt his body invaded. He gave himself in to the sensations, letting Death drive his hard organ into his virgin flesh until he was seated deeply within the tight channel.

        With nothing more than their passion and love for each other driving them, the two men braved the tempest that battered their bare flesh. But even nature's fury could not dispel the scorching heat that engulfed their joined forms. The incandescence that filled them melted the snow as it fell on their skins.

        As their bodies began to move in unison, Duncan began to see visions in the flames. He saw a man on a snowy white charger, his dark cloak flying in the desert wind as he spurred his steed to great speeds through the dunes of sand. The man's face was painted blue and white. He then saw three more men, clad similarly to the first man. One of them had a hideous scar on his face. The scarred man pointed his blade at the man with the painted face, mouthing a word.

        Then, Duncan heard screams and he realized it was his own and Death's as they neared the pinnacle. The visions began to overwhelm his mind, filling him in a blinding, agonizing torrent. His heart pounded so hard that he could barely breathe.

        When Death finally claimed the Highlander's innocence with one final thrust, Duncan screamed his release, saying the word the scarred man spoke.

        "METHOS!" he cried out as his head and his heart burst from the intense ecstasy of their coupling.

        After that brief agony, there was only numbness. As the flames of the matches died down, so did the pace of his beating heart begin to slacken.

        "Duncan! Duncan!" he heard Death call out. "Dear God, what have I done?"

        Somehow, the Scot found the strength to raise his hands and cupped Death's face, pulling it closer to his.

        Kissing those lips lovingly, Duncan whispered, "Thank ye, Methos! Thank ye for the love ye 'ave given me!"

        As the Highlander at last succumbed to the slumber of death, he heard Methos say, "I won't leave you, Duncan! I swear it!"

 

        The cock crowed on Christmas morn. The city began to bustle with activity as if there had been no storm the previous night. Everyone exchanged Christmas cheer. But there was no happiness on the faces of the two men and the woman who searched high and low for the loved one they had lost.

        "My Lord! My Lady! Mr. Horton!" a frantic voice called behind them. It was the altar boy at the cathedral.

        "What is it, Richard?" asked Ian, dread filling his heart.

        "The demon...er...I mean yer son!" Richard stammered, remembering he was talking to the devil's father. "Ye must come wi' me! The church!"

        "Duncan," Mary whispered in fear.

        "Lead the way, boy!" Horton gruffly ordered the young man.

        Swiftly, they headed for the cathedral. Already, a small crowd had gathered in front of the church. Father Bernard stood solemnly before the left door, prayer book in his hand. As they slowly went up the few steps, the crowd fell silent, clearing a way for them to see the pitiful sight that lay on the ground.

        "Oh sweet Mither o' Jesus!" Mary exclaimed in shock as a keening wail rose from her throat.

        Horton wrapped his arms around the grieving woman, unable to take his eyes off the still figure. What have I done? I should never have allowed him to go out last night! This is all my fault!

        But the greater guilt was felt by Ian MacLeod. He walked shakily towards the broken form that had once been his adopted son.

        "Dear God!" he cried, finally seeing his son up close.

        Duncan's shirt had been torn open, his coat discarded at the corner of the door. His trousers had been ripped to shreds. Scattered beside him were the burned remains of the matches.

        However, the sight of the dark bruises all over his son's body stunned the clan laird. There was blood on his thighs and on the snow between his legs.

        In his mind's eye, Ian saw Duncan running through the storm. Finding the cathedral, he decided to seek shelter within. However, the  doors were locked and the young man had to sacrifice his precious wares to keep warm. Then someone saw him, a beast with insatiable lust. Sensing the man coming towards him, Ian could see his son look up from his wee fire with trust in his eyes, thinking it was salvation. However, the beast forced Duncan down to the ground and took him brutally. At first, there was disbelief in those gentle brown orbs. Then, as his tears began to fall, he closed his eyes in weariness and surrendered himself to this cruel fate that befell him.

        Dropping down to his knees, Ian gathered his dead son into his arms, weeping in remorse. "Oh, ma poor son! Duncan, I'm sa sarry! I'm sarry I cast ye ou'!"

        For a long time, the laird of the Clan MacLeod cradled the young Highlander in his arms like a babe, caressing the cold cheek. Then, he looked at the people around him.

        In a loud voice, Ian declared, "This is my son. He is Duncan MacLeod o' the Clan MacLeod! He is no' a demon! He died in the shadow o' Mother Church as he sought shelter an' mercy from the fury o' nature an' man. Let him be brought inside the cathedral for a proper blessin' as the son o' a clan laird deserves."

        Turning to Richard, he said, "Gae ta ma home an' tell  the servants ta get Duncan's best clothes. Let him wear the colors o' the clan as he is delivered ta his final resting place!"

        That afternoon, Duncan's body has been cleansed and anointed with oil. He was dressed in a fine, white silk shirt and the blue and green tartan kilt of the Clan MacLeod, knee high boots on his feet. His own father laid him on top of the altar. Tessa came with her parents, bearing a basket full of lovely wild flowers. Tears fell from her eyes as she scattered petals around the Scot's form. The cathedral itself was soon filled with people, mourning for the young man who they had so mercilessly tormented.

        Suddenly, the middle doors of the cathedral burst open. As everyone looked back, standing in the doorway, bathed in sunlight, was a slender man clad in an elegant black waistcoat and dark trousers. Hanging unsheathed at his left hip was a slim sword. His silver riding spurs clicked on the marble floor as he slowly made his way towards the altar. No one could speak, hushed to silence by the commanding presence of the man in their midst. Even Ian stepped back as he went up the few steps and approached the altar.

        The man gazed for a moment at the Scot. Then, he sat on the smooth stone, a thigh propped up, shocking the mourners.

        As he bent down over the still form, Ian heard him whisper, "I promised I wouldn't leave you, Duncan. I'm here!"

        Saying this, the young man tenderly kissed the Highlander on the lips.

        Everyone was stunned by this act. But no one made a move to stop him.

        Then, the Scot's body shuddered. Inhaling deeply, Duncan took in the sweet breath of the man who was kissing him, the man he loved. Slowly, his arms went up, wrapping around Methos' neck, returning the kiss with equal passion. When they parted, Duncan's eyes fluttered open, a smile forming on his full lips.

        "Methos! Ye dinna leave me!" he said happily. "I'm sa glad!"

        "Will you come with me, Duncan?" Methos asked him. "I have nothing else to offer you except my love."

        In reply, the Scot kissed him once more. "'Tis aneuch!"

        Methos helped his lover up, letting the younger man's legs swing down to the floor. As they stood up, they saw that all the people in the cathedral were staring at them.

        "I have come to take him away! He does not belong here!" Methos declared aloud, putting his arms protectively around Duncan's waist. "If any of you try to stop me, it's my blade you'll be facing!"

        It was Tessa who took a brave step forward. Looking at the Immortal before her, she said, "No one will stop you. You belong together." Tessa smiled at Duncan, giving him a snow white rose. "I hope you have finally found the happiness you seek."

        Duncan embraced the child tightly, tears falling from his eyes. "Aye, Tessa! I have!"

        Standing up, the Scot gazed at his father and mother, expecting revulsion and hatred from them. But there was only joy in his parents' eyes.

        "Both o' ye have ma blessin', son!" Ian assured him. "Gae with God!"

        "Thank ye, Faether, Mither!" said Duncan gratefully, embracing them for the last time.

        Holding hands, the two Immortals strode out of the cathedral and into the city street where Methos' white stallion waited for them. Methos got into the saddle first. Offering his hand to the Highlander, he helped Duncan climb on, settling him comfortably before him.

        Together, they rode off into sunset and into the bright future of eternity awaiting them.


End file.
